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Finally. Santa Fe.

but, you know, it’s not really like that.

We have had the most leisurely drive out west, I think.

We’ve driven plenty, no doubt; weathered zillions of delays; got started late; drove until later. All of it, no prob. But I think there was round after round of public and private woot! when we crossed over into New Mexico. At that point, the landscape changed, the tenor changed… we were somewhere else. Finally, irrefutably. And that is the goal of a trip for me: to be somewhere else.

Today, from the second we got into NM, the weather started fuckin’ with us, I will say that. The morning in Amarillo brought glorious light and a breeze; by the time we pulled over to see The Cadillac Ranch, the mercury was climbing but the breeze (wind, even?) was hanging in there. Later, in NM, right across the border in Tucum for an internet break (ah, the new world), the mercury wasn’t climbing, it was soaring. As we hunkered down for the final 3-4 hours to Santa Fe, things got a little dicey, since the animal contingent (have I mentioned Charlie Brown and Olivia?) were seeming a little withered and the Woo machine (the Crown Vic) was inching towards too-hot-under-the-hood. So we abandoned AC, swapped the pets into the more—ahem—moderne Tif and Troy-mobile and rolled down the windows. This was a welcome broiling, in my opinion—caravanning up and up, among the mesas, under big skies with a loud sun. And then just when this seemed like the new norm, storm clouds started boiling on the horizon. and we eventually sailed into a rattling bout of lightning and and miniature rainstorm thrashing. Jules said: “Iit was like the raindrops were being thrown down at us.” Then, cool… then hwy 285 rolled out for us and we drove the final hour into Santa Fe under total glory: cloud littered skies, rainbows, and air, delicious air in the mid-70s.

that was some kind of welcome…

Today, i unhitched the Woomobile from the u-haul and, with mapquest screens from my laptop, motored into the quickly setting sun, searching for some lost bit of my childhood. Across I-25, down state road 16, right on SR44, I found it: There was the dustblown, sunbleached sign: Rancho Alegre. Rancho Alegre, longtime home of my regionally famous cousin, J.W. Eaves and his family. I was overcome by a delight to return here, more than 20 years after my last visit.

Driving along the paved road (wasn’t it dirt before?), I passed the house. I’m sure this was the house, right? A sprawling adobe manse, so foreign to these southern eyes, and so familiar to these childhood eyes. It sits low on a rise or desert red and brown, dozens of yards behind the running fence and the road. It looked unoccupied. That was the house. And down the road farther, on the left—there it was. The movie ranch. I was tingling at the sight of those fake buildings, that contrived western street, so well-situated out here among the dust and lizards, yet so absolutely anachronistic. this is a western town. No, this is not a western town. this is a movie set, a tribute to countless western towns on TV and in the movies for decades.

There seemed to be an “office” now, and fencing and a gate. Several signs claiming “set is closed” looked neglected as did a sunbleached sign warning of a guard dog. Since I could easily step through the ornamental gate, I decided that probably there wasn’t a roaming attack dog.

Decades ago, I come here in a dune buggy, reeling in my good fortune. A dune buggy. JW’s dune buggy, that he told me I could drive around. I was maybe 13 years old, and i had the keys to a dune buggy and permission to wander far and wide around a kingdom of scrubbrush and fake wild west buildings.

I can see two cars, but don’t see any people. Is this what it’s like “out west?” …You just wander around because everything is great big and nobody’s really around anyway? I chew on that, as I amble as innocently as possible around the side of a building. Are there voices?Or is that the sound of movies by-gone taking a break between shots? No it’s voices, I’m sure. As I come around the corner, I see a couple kicked back on a driftwood porch, drinking in the sunset. This has potential to be tense, so I send out a “hello there!” not too loud, but not too soft, either. They’re actually so relaxed that they don’t notice me, so I speak up a little: “HI THERE. Um, I know I’m trespassing, but…”—Such a story, how do I tell it?— Trying to get right to the point, I summarize: “I am a distant relative of JW and Ermalee’s, and I used to come play here when I was a little kid. I’ve come all the way from Kentucky and couldn’t be this close and not try to stop by.” The guy on the porch seems to scoff and says: “Oh, we’ve never heard that story before!” I think he’s giving me shit, but in fact, he means it. This leads to a sprawling conversation and recollection about JW and Ermalee, the Movie ranch, the house and more. Suddenly these things I’ve remembered, these near myths are made real, restored like a faded movie print. This guy, Thomas, knows everything I’m talking about. He knew the Eaves, he knows Mel, the grandson who inherited the ranch, he knows Trish, the daughter who was Miss Rodeo America in 1969 and he knows about the room that was full of nothing but her trophies. He even mentions The Cheyenne Social Club, a western that I only think of in terms of the Movie Ranch and may or may not have ever seen. Thomas is the first person I’ve ever talked to who knew these things other than my mom or my brother. It’s a relief, a joy, kind of a dream, and it almost chokes me with emotion.

I remember JW took us on a tour of the property, a pickup truck on a rutted out road. He drove us down into a box canyon, telling us about how the just-released The Lone Ranger did some filming here. I want to see it immediately. In the bottom of the canyon, the walls rise up and JW hands me the keys. “Why don’t you drive us out of here, Mickey?” he suggests with a sideways grin. The truck is a manual “column shifter” and they road out is about a 20 degree incline.

Thomas is as nice as he can be. He’s a burly, shaggy headed cross between a cowboy and an actor. He’s an actor who plays cowboys, but also seems to actually be a cowboy. He is the caretaker on the ranch, feeding the several horses, and doing I-don’t-know-what. But he says he’s quite busy and isn’t especially tolerant of uninvited visitors, it seems. Luckily, I seem to be an exception. “A few weeks ago, on a Sunday morning at 8am, I hear a knock on my door…” he says, with obvious irritation. “I get up, open the door, and there’s this man and this lady, and he grins and says ‘We came ALL THE WAY DOWN from Santa Fe! I thought I’d show my wife the ranch!’” Thomas pauses, reliving his disbelief. “‘All the way down from Santa Fe,’ huh?” he snorts. “Santa Fe is 25 minutes away, if you drive slow!”

The sun goes down, and we talk and talk some more. I’m certainly not being hurried off, and in fact eventually excuse myself, after getting clearance from Thomas to come buy tomnorrow “for the morning light” to take some pictures. I drive off with the most remarkable warm feeling, as if I’ve been granted an audience with a beloved, but long-dead relative. Which I have.

Click here for some pictures of JW Eaves’ Movie Ranch.

the fabulous, the mega, the super-dee-duper Tessie T is joining us! Flyin’ in, she is!

Okay, gotta git. We gotta tear ass for Santa Fe.

Okay, I’ve become once again enchanted by the EAVES MOVIE RANCH. As I may or may not have made clear, I played here as a child, and was so in love with the place. More on this to come.

This morn, from our remote outpost at Holiday Inn, Tucumcari, NM. The fine folks here opened their internet to us, and for that we are grateful.

Whilst blogging, I’ve discovered that since I last investigated, they got them one of them fancy fancy websites. Yee-haw!

I’m really curious about how this is working, since my 2nd cousin (once removed) JW, and his wife Ermalee passed into the Great Beyond a number of years ago. Who’s runnin’ the show??

I hope I get to visit somehow. but I wonder about the real influence of approaching Rancho Alegre and buzzing the buzzer and saying “I’m JW’s 2nd Cousin (once removed)! Can I come in?”

but you never know.. I’m gonna at least try.

Quick breakfast tip: If in Amarillo, look for Stockman’s Home Cookin’, off of I-40. Be sure and get a side of their home-made hot sauce for your eggs and—well—just put it on everything.

A warning though: The pancakes and waffles have officially gotten the gasface from Tif and Woo.

I’m glad you asked. You know I never tire of the music thang—

Zap Mama, Brazilian Girls, Bebel Gilberto, Carl Henry Brueggen, Bossacucanova, some disco, Mosquitos, stories from “I thought My Father was God—The Best of NPR’s National Story Project,” and a Kurt Vonnegut collection.

Today, I predict Beck, Squeeze and Herb Alpert.

Note: the musical views represented herein do not necessarily represent those of the Toyota Landcruiser that is frequently seen in our company.

Amarillo TX—I’m sleepin’ less than my travel partners. I don’t know why, just am. I suppose I’m just too excited to sleep. I haven’t been “out west” in so many years, and really so little as a whole. It’s kind of like boats: When I was a kid my family had a boat, but it fell out of favor (another story) early on and so I never got to be a “boat person.” Not so much. Nor have I gotten my preferred dose of the American southwest. And I do listen to a lot of Calexico, yes, in fact.

So back to the morning—sleeping, not sleeping and here we are in Amarillo, an hour and a half from New Mexico. I did my quietly-get-up-and-shower-and-find-breakfast thing, while the slumberin’ continued (7:30am) Here’s the magic then: I opened the door and—hear the heavenly angels sing?—the southwest texas morning sun rinsed me clean. Oh, the glory of the southwestern morning light. White, white light, accompanied by a cool calming steady breeze. What a way to greet the day.

“You’ll see Amarillo…”

It’s hard not to be humming and singing “(Get Your Kicks On) Route 66” most of the time when driving along 44 and 40, the highways that have outmoded Route 66, “The Gateway to the West.” I heard the story of the song once—popular myth has that it was written by a grateful GI returning home from abroad—and have always loved it. So to get to spend time even next door to this old road. Which is lucky, since that’s what we’ve been seeing on this day of driving. Missouri, Oklahoma—a whole lot of OK, and some Texas panhandle, cowpokes! Which brings us to Amarillo, which Julie seems determined to pronounce with a hispanic flair: “ah-mah-REEE-lo.” I say: “Julie—say it like a redneck…that’s better.”

The nighttime air here is glorious. A constant breeze seems to billow by, the stars boom down from overhead, and it’s ever so slightly cool once the sun goes down. Not the case during the day; earlier we hit the upper 90’s south of Oklahoma City. By the way, can’t really call Oklahoma City “mighty pretty,” but aside from that basic truth, I still like the road and am content to sit and let my eyes roam across the diminishing landscape. The trees grow lower, the scrub brush spreads and the dust starts to take flight. And something happens to franchise food service. I can’t exactly explain it, but it was irksome. A lackadaisical putter that seemed to localize in line right in front of me. The kind of glacial transaction that takes the “fast” right out of food. Rude or not, just passing by, sorry pal—but can you make me a sandwiich soon? I gotta go.

We ate at a nice little scrubby diner with a huge neon EAT sign out front. Home made fries, yum. The men’s bathroom made me laugh twiice; once for the framed picture that I recognized from the farm of two incredibly old looking toddlers in overalls, with the quote “So how long you been farming?”; and two, for the lectern that apparently is stored in the men’s bathroom when not in use by who-knows-what ciivic group that holds their regular meetings at the EAT diner.

We’re Motel Sixin’ it for night number 2. I don’t expect the wonder of yesterday’s Airstream caravan in the morning, but soon we’ll be in New Mexico (an hour and a half away) and there’ll be wonder a plenty. I haven’t been to NM since—I’m not sure—maybe since I was about 15. Over 20 years. My memories of it have always reigned supreme. New Mexico is another planet, different, haunted. We’re all excited about it.

Santa Fe. I’m thinking of a special thing, but it may not happen. The odds are against it. Sometime, I’ll tell you about JW Eaves Movie Ranch, also known once upon a time as Rancho Alegre, the home of my 2nd cousin, once removed, and the most wonderful place I ever played. JW and Ermalee Eaves are gone now, and I miss them even if they only met me a few times.

That’s a joke, people, about Atom RSS, the method by which some of you subscribe to this blog. Get it? Up and Atom?
(oy, vey)

“Woke up this mornin’ and I got myself a beer.” Okay, another joke alright? Actually, woke up this mornin’ and I got myself a mess of scratchy towels for my Motel 6 mates. After a peculiar night of us packed into our beds, Olivia the kitty, meowing incessantly (all of us too pooped to care, I reckon), I cracked my eyes at the crack of 8:30 CST. Springfield,, MO. Check.

The word is that TT is gonna meet us in Sanfa Fe, but who can say, baybay? Never say nay with TayTay…

First thing, I did, I grabbed the ole powerbook and headed to the nextdoor Waffle House. Getting my wallet out of the car (that was a doh! moment; haven’t I learned yet not to leave my wallet in the car, ever?? This has, after all, been a banner year for People Stealing Mick’s Stuff). Anyway, I got to have a swell momentary conversation with the trucker who’s Peterbilt was pointed at the side panel of Julie’s Crown Vic. The conversation starter was his gi-mongous mesh grill bug catcher, emblazoned with the words: “Miss B Havin”

What’s not to love?

Next, Waffle House, where I see my first truly memorable trip event: A departing caravan of Airstreams—100 or more—makes their way past the window, and all I can do is moan at more of these great campers than I’ve ever seen at one time. Turns out, right next door is one of the biggest Airstream events on the planet, right now! All I can do is watch and I feel kind of helpless because it’s so enchanting to me. Airstream after airstream, all different ages and sizes, and pulling vehicles. My favorite: a convertable early 70’s cadillac. It’s all I can do not to call the hotel room and wake my sleeping comrades to witness. Hell, I want to jump on board, or talk to these folks or something! Instead I get to talk to an old farm couple about the Airstream phenomen, noting for myself too, how Wally’s dream is in full tilt, people congregating and driving around in his iconoclastic, legendary camper. Amazing.

Well, i haven’t been talking about this, but…I’m headed to california! And here’s what that means for you, gentle reader: A Mick Travelogue, which is a tradition that predates blogging. This medium was, of course, made for the travel narrative, so rest assured I’m going to take great joy in this. Entriies will probably be light on the “linkiness” (thanks, Rona), but I’ll install links and pics as the opportunity (i.e.: wireless access) presents itself. Thanks for reading!

A longtime dream is in the process of being realized as I travel cross-country, escorting Julie Woolie to her new home in San Diego. Also along for the journey, intrepidsters, Tif and Troyboy. The mission: See the Bestus of the Westus, festus. We departed on sunday, somewhat later than expected, which is to say exactly when predicted. (ETD: 8am. ATD: 3pm).

But what ya gonna do? Hang out like it’s vacation, that’s what. And it is. My idea of a vacation— one where I got nothing really to do besides stare out the window or drive. Nice decision, methinks! This, after the several months grind of completing several major projects for the Ket.

So we got away late, then busted tracks. First stop: Louisville, to drop of my car at the Jamer’s, prepped and parked for the return flight form san diego next week. then, onto the road in earnest, we get busy for san diego.

A favorite stop thus far: the trucker oasis north of evansville (hello aunts and uncles!) at 41 and I-64, provider of a wide range of fried delicacies, all nicely dehydrated from the heat lamps. Still, I couldn’t pass up a small portion of jalepeno poppers (why, poppers?) and a corn dog. Also, I was momentarily horrified at the sight of Chicken Gizzards, which I used to be fed as a kid, but still have no idea the exact nature of. Gizzard?!?

Eventually, we cruised through the highway spaghetti of St. Louis about 10pm, which was good—those roads, kinda nutty puling a u-haul trailer. did i mention that part? two vehicles, each with a uhaul? that would be me and jules in the Crown Vic and Troy and Tif in the Landcruiser.. uh-huh. It’s all good.

Have to say we made our goal, to my surprise, that being Springfield, MO. We had to concede Oklahoma City, but I’ll settle for Springfield. Tomorrow will be a day of magnificent changing landscape as we make across Oklahoma (land of my people), Texas’ panhandle (just skirting Pampa, former home of some of my people) and then into wonderful New Mexico, and our goal Santa Fe. Hopefully some Route 66 along the way!

More to come…